As the magical twelve-week mark approached, I got sicker and crazier. My love of CrossFit quickly faded into paranoia that I would squat and my baby would fall out, and my once-pristine eating had devolved into eating whatever I could tolerate. SPOILER ALERT: It was mostly bagels, Egg McMuffins, Fruity Pebbles, and candy.
My doctor continued to ignore my very real signs of antepartum depression (seriously, if you’re struggling, TALK TO SOMEONE. Especially if you’ve experienced a loss and you find all those feelings creeping up on you), and one by one, my friends dropped like flies because of my increasingly erratic and grouchy behavior. I hated working out because I was so sick and tired. I hated being asked “Should you be doing that?” when I was already paranoid about everything. I didn’t do any physical activity without checking with my doctor twelve times. I hated feeling like crap but then having people make me feel like crap for feeling like crap with things like, “Oh, you’re nauseous? That’s a good sign though. You should be happy.”
Don’t say this crap to pregnant people. Rest assured, I wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t safe. And I love my baby. Quit insinuating that I’m not psyched about my freaking miracle because I’m not a fan of chronic fatigue and throwing up my lunch every day. You can love your baby and still hate puking.
My spotting subsided after about 3-and-a-half weeks. Turns out I had a subchorionic bleed that’s just a fancy way of saying my kid somehow managed to bruise my uterus. I like to think the baby was so intent on implanting properly that they just smacked into my uterine wall so they could stay put. And in some weird way, that made me feel better.
The sickness and the grouchiness continued. I’m not someone who knows how to be scared, so that just manifested into more grouchiness.
CrossFit wasn’t fun anymore because I was too afraid to do anything. I had to avoid heavy lifting until a week after the spotting was over, and I was too afraid to resume it afterward. The lifting was my favorite part. I went from being in the best shape of my life to being afraid to so much as squat.
And I started seeing huge dips in my performance, which by the way, is totally normal. But all it really did was piss me off. I’d watched women at my gym get pregnant before me and not miss a beat, and I somehow expected to be just like them.
Sure, they were in way better shape and had been doing it much longer than I had, but somehow, I was still shocked and indignant when I couldn’t perform at their level. When it comes to pregnancy, comparison is the thief of joy. Every pregnancy is different and every person is different. Though it didn’t stop me from letting Holly, Kate, and Spencer all know that they gave me unrealistic pregnancy fitness expectations.
At my twelve-week appointment, I saw my little nugget again. He or she had grown so big and was doing flips and twirls on the screen while they did my ultrasound. Chris jumped out of his seat, fascinated by the baby’s dancing.
The magic was still there. I hated being pregnant, but Bun was still the best thing I’d ever seen.
The doctor got on me my about my weight, which was climbing pretty rapidly since I’d gone from eating a Whole30 diet to subsisting off of carbs because bagels and McMuffins seemed to be the only thing I could tolerate. So, the lecture was fair. And I had every intention to get back on track, which is why I’d brought my favorite nutrition shake in for her to okay for me.
She okayed the shake but then bitched about me putting a banana in it. She then launched into a story about how she had a patient who’d gained all kinds of weight because *GASP* she’d been enjoying a banana daily.
I don’t really know how one can keep a straight face during a story like that, but she managed.
Here were my takeaways from that conversation:
My doctor’s patient was clearly a huge liar. And my doctor was an idiot for believing it. I don’t doubt that chick was eating bananas, but that’s not all she was eating.
Bananas, while high in sugar and not doing much to help with my constipation were not going to make me fat. I’ve struggled with weight my entire life, and there were ZERO times that I could attribute it to my fruit consumption.
I was going to put a banana in my freaking shake every day because it was delicious and I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure my weight gain could be attributed to my previously aforementioned diet of bagels, McMuffins, Fruity Pebbles, and candy. Just saying.
Also, just so you’re informed, less than 6% of doctors have any training in nutrition. Gather from that what you will.
I left there and within a few days, we’d formally announced our pregnancy using our baby’s ultrasound photo and an awesome Top Gun pun because my child had given me the gift of being inverted in his or her photo.
Makes me chuckle every time.
Twelve weeks. We made it.